Lady Whitmore's brows rose at her words, clearly in utter disbelief, while Celia gave a small laugh. "On your own—?"
Penelope lifted the ivory card just enough for the royal seal to catch the light. The crimson wax gleamed like blood, shutting them entirely.
For one perfect moment, both women stared in silence, as disbelief took over their expressions. Just the way she had been in incredulity when the invitation arrived. I would've been surprised if I were in your shoes, Penelope thought.
Then Celia's face paled, and Lady Whitmore's carefully arranged expression faltered.
"I, too, received an invitation from the royal house," The words were delivered with effortless politeness, yet the effect was immediate as shock flickered openly across their features.
Good. Let them gossip with this next.
Celia recovered first, though poorly. "You?" she blurted.
Penelope's smile did not waver at her reaction. Oh dear. "Yes." She simply replied.
Lady Whitmore's eyes narrowed, disbelief warring with forced civility. "How… extraordinary," The words came out forced, the weight of surprise glinting across her features.
"Oh, quite," Penelope replied smoothly. "I confess I was rather surprised myself."
A faint silence settled over the boutique when her words landed smoothly, one made to aggravate and vex the people present in the room. And for the first time, Penelope felt something dangerously close to satisfaction.
The silence that followed was almost musical in her ears.
Lady Whitmore's eyes remained fixed upon the crimson wax seal in Penelope's hand, as though by staring hard enough she might somehow transform it into an ordinary calling card.
Beside her, Celia let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "Surely there has been some misunderstanding," She said, her voice dripping with fake sweetness and empathy.
Penelope turned the card over delicately between her gloved fingers, as though considering the possibility. "A misunderstanding?" she repeated, her tone perfectly mild.
Lady Whitmore recovered first, drawing herself up with practiced elegance when she opened her mouth to speak, intervening on her daughter's behalf. "The palace does make mistakes from time to time," She said smoothly. "A footman may have delivered it to the wrong residence. Such things happen,"
Mary, standing quietly at Penelope's side, stiffened and Penelope only smiled.
"How unfortunate that would be," she replied, her voice appearing regretful. "And yet the invitation does bear my name."
She tilted the card ever so slightly, allowing the gold lettering to catch the light shining upon 'Miss Penelope Anderson'.
Celia's expression tightened. Her gaze flickered from the letter to Penelope's face, then to the modest ribbons laid upon the counter, feigning nonchalance at once.
Composing herself, "How very curious," Celia murmured. "One wonders what possible interest the royal house could have in…" She paused, her lips curving. "Well."
The unfinished sentence was far sharper than any spoken insult.
Penelope met her gaze. "Yes?" she asked pleasantly, feigning ignorance of the mockery despite the fire in her veins.
Lady Whitmore placed a gloved hand upon her daughter's arm, though there was little genuine restraint in the gesture. "Celia merely means that the Queen's gatherings are typically reserved for the most… eligible of society," The words landed with deliberate weight, but the word 'eligible' landed even sharper.
For the young, unblemished, and wanted ladies of the ton. Everything the whispers claimed Penelope no longer was.
Celia tilted her head, eyes shining with malicious curiosity. "I had thought, Miss Anderson, that you had long since withdrawn from such affairs. If I were you, I would've hidden my face from the public, at least until the rumors quieten," she advised. "You disgrace yourself further by embarking on another failed season,"
Penelope's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "How kind of you to keep such attentive track of my social habits, but kinder if you'd put that much focus on ensuring a successful debut, Miss Whitmore."
Celia smiled, tightening at her words, one that clearly didn't reach her eyes. "Oh, one cannot help but hear things, Miss Anderson. I was merely giving you a… friendly advice,"
Friendly her foot.
Sensing how the conversation was far from her daughter's favor, Lady Whitmore sighed, feigning sympathy. "It is a dreadful thing, truly, how quickly fortunes can change. I hope the news concerning… well, Lord Benedict's debts are false. It saddens me to know such an honorable man indulges himself in…"
Penelope's eyes sharpened, and the woman took it as success, leaving her sentence unfinished. A triumphant smile plastered across her lips.
Penelope's body flared in anger at the cruel little murmurs exchanged over tea cups and fan-hidden smiles, but even more at an open insult. First, there was the rumor she had withered on the marriage mart, and no gentleman of standing would have her. And second, after all the discretion, it seemed the final breaking bomb had loosened, moving from one ear to another. It was said that her father's debts had turned the Andersons household into little more than a crumbling estate draped in old silk and fading pride.
She never believed such information would leak, but hearing it—most especially from the Whitmores—only proved how far the rumor had spread. And her stomach dropped.
"I find the rumor interesting," She said softly, intending to remain unshaken by their desperate attempt to infuriate her. Passing a look across their faces, "Especially for those who build their fortunes upon gossip."
The shop seemed to still when those words landed like a bomb. Mary looked as though she might choke on the breath she was holding, while the shopkeeper coughed, trying to hide an obvious laughter.
Celia's smile faltered at once.
Immediately, Lady Whitmore gave a light laugh, though the sound was brittle. "My dear, no one speaks ill of your family."
Penelope raised a brow. "No?"
Both women silently fumed, eyes blazing with obvious anger and murderous intensity.
Then Celia stepped closer, lowering her voice as though confiding in a friend. "It is only that society notices things, Miss Anderson. A lady no longer in her first bloom, a father whose creditors grow impatient, and the absence of new gowns?" Her gaze swept pointedly over Penelope's attire. "People do notice."
Penelope let the silence stretch, let the irritation spread all over her like a toxin. Just a little closer, and people would notice a scratch on your face next, she thought, and smiled. An innocent smile with evil intentions. "Then they must also have noticed that the Crown has summoned me, do you not think?"
The words struck like a slap, and Celia's lips parted, straightening at once. "For what purpose?" She asked sharply, her composure cracking loose.
Penelope feigned thoughtfulness. "I confess," she said, lifting a shoulder in graceful indifference, "I did not think to ask Her Majesty's messenger."